


Pieces III: Scratch

by thebasement_archivist



Category: The X-Files
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2002-02-05
Updated: 2002-02-05
Packaged: 2018-11-20 15:38:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 978
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11338383
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thebasement_archivist/pseuds/thebasement_archivist
Summary: Third in the Pieces Series.  Mulder's POV.





	Pieces III: Scratch

**Author's Note:**

> Note from alice ttlg, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [The Basement](http://fanlore.org/wiki/The_Basement), which moved to the AO3 to ensure the stories are always available and so that authors may have complete control of their own works. To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in June 2017. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [The Basement's collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/thebasement/profile).

Pieces III: Scratch

## Pieces III: Scratch

#### by Susan

Title: Pieces III: Scratch  
Author: Susan  
Feedback to:   
Author's Website: http://www.geocities.com/xfox7/  
Status: Complete  
Category: Unclassified  
Pairing (Primary): Mulder/Krycek  
Pairing(s) (Secondary):   
Crossover Fandom (if any):   
Crossover Info (if any):   
Other Pairing Info:   
Rating: R  
Spoilers: The Red and the Black.  
Permission to Archive:   
Series or Sequel/Prequel: A collection of snippets -- they are unrelated to one another. They are just grouped by style.  
Notes:   
Warnings:   
Disclaimer:   
Summary: Third in the Pieces Series. Mulder's POV.

Scratch 

I swear. I just don't understand it. The more I think about it, the more it confuses me. I must have felt guilty about something. Maybe I just wanted control, although, I'm the one who always lost control. Well, that's not true, we both did. 

That's the sick part. It wasn't just me. He must've been trying to annihilate himself, too. He wanted the abuse, otherwise he wouldn't have kept coming back again and again. And again. Punishment for his sins? Justify his evil ways by letting me pound out my anger on his face. And his body. Until I couldn't even see the blood. Until I forgot who he was. And until I remembered who he was. And I kissed him. And cried. And fucked him. 

He came on Wednesdays. Not every week. Never at the same time. He could be waiting for me when I got home from work or wake me up at 3 am. But it was always Wednesday. My lack of social life made it impossible to dodge his visits. Besides, I'm sure he'd have come anyway. He would've waited for me. I would try to get work done or watch TV, but it got harder and harder. When I got home, I'd fidget and pace, unable to stay still. I'd find myself looking for him all day, gazing into space, knowing full well that he'd only come to my apartment. Scully would ask me if I was OK. I'd just say yeah and keep ignoring her. I don't know what I'd have done if I would've seen him somewhere, just on the street. Reality can become surreal very quickly. Especially if you were to realize in the cold light of day that you're fucking a criminal. The man who killed your father. 

Last time he came, I was stretched out on the couch, bouncing a tennis ball on the ceiling, wondering if he would come that night. Thinking of ways to kill him. Thinking of how much I wanted him. He appeared out of nowhere, probably came in through the window in the bedroom. He was covered in dirt and grime. Cut on his forehead, the blood dried and crusty. 

I wanted to tell him to go use my shower, but all that came out was "Where the hell've you been?" The rough edge of my voice cut through the darkened room. 

"Happy to see me, Mulder?" His voice was cautious, and he was standing at attention, bracing himself for what was to come. 

I swear he was almost radiating energy. It was like...he was excited about the prospect of me beating the shit out of him. Hell, I was excited. And he knew that. His eyes glinted and he almost smiled. Enough for me to pounce on him. Bloodied his nose and reopened the gash on his forehead. Ripped his filthy clothes off. And mine. 

We didn't need foreplay; the punches were enough. I kissed him. I threw him over my coffee table and pounded myself into him. Until he came - gasping my name, scratching his nails on the wood hard enough to leave imprints, pushing me over the edge. 

Standing up from where we lay in a heap on the floor and pushing me off of him after what seemed an eternity, he walked naked to the bathroom. Through a haze I heard the water running, the toilet flushing, paper tearing. He came back, clean and bandaged, and proceeded to dress. Without a word, he left the way he came. 

After he left, I sat on the floor, thinking about him, about us. We've hurt each other plenty - he has physical scars, and I'm all scratched up on the inside, scars that'll never go away. I asked myself, 'Can this keep on happening? Should we keep up this arrangement?' I gave up, content with the situation. I told myself that as long as he comes here, I'd give him what we both want. Screw the consequences. 

And then tonight happens. It wasn't his day, so I didn't expect him. One second I'm looking at a piece of paper on the floor and bam! suddenly, I was at the end of his gun. The situation was reversed. But instead of hurting me, he just talked, lies or truth, I don't quite know. Why should I believe him? 

Then, he kissed me. Not a "I-wanna-fuck-you" kiss like usual. But a real kiss, on the cheek. Nice, not twisted. He handed me the gun, turned and walked out, spouting some Russian. But he sounded sincere when he said it. Not angry. 

Sitting here in the dark, I think about him. I rub the scratches in the tabletop. Five little rows of etches. Deep enough to see the light wood under the dark stain. One hand. I want to know where he fits into my life now. He changed the rules. His anger was gone and I don't want to hit him anymore. But I want to see him. And, honestly, I don't think I can give him up now. It's not that I'm desperate for the sex. It's more than that. I crave him. It's obsessive, I know. And as I sit here I realize that I don't think he'll be back next week. 

If you enjoyed this story, please send feedback to Susan 


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